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Post by Nedward Underhill on May 7, 2009 23:14:01 GMT -6
Maciael’s thoughts were drawn back to the service as the last of the congregants took their seats and the hidden voices of the cantors quieted. The archdeacon slid forward to begin the last rites proper. It would be some time before the church elected a new Chancellor. No doubt the politicking was already feverishly underway behind the scenes. The archdeacon, an obvious candidate for the position, was dressed in a sombre vestment; conservative and formal, yet of impeccable taste and quality. He carried himself with deepest humility and spoke with a rich and carrying voice. There was no doubt in Maciael’s mind that the seraph saw the service as an opportunity to press his claim.
Yaelwe, Lord of the heavens, and of the lands below By your command are we each brought to this life And by your will are we again called back to you We praise and glorify your holy name, Lord is on high Remembering especially this day your servant Djannus Octavus Insulis All we have, and all that we are, comes from your gracious hands Grant eternal rest unto them O Lord, who turn in faith to you...
Maciael rose with the congregation to recite the responses, hoping to be lifted out of his brooding thought by the beauty of the liturgy. It was no use. Just as he was beginning to feel a lightening of his spirits, Nyssa rose and fluttered forward to offer the song of passage for the dead. As a Lady of the Order of Mercy, a sisterhood devoted to tending to the dying and administering last rights over the departed, it was right and proper that she perform the office. Her every movement and inflection suggested a perfectly self-effacing devotion. Her voice carried out over the kneeling assembly, offering the departed safe passage into Yaelwe’s arms and stirring every heart to new heights of faithfulness. Still, as she hovered over the casket and lifted her beautiful voice in song, Maciael could not help feel vaguely uncomfortable. He could not get out of his mind the image of the last time they had met. She had hovered over the cold and frozen body of the Chancellor then just as she now hung in the air over him.
Neither had Maciael forgotten his pledge to the King. As he looked upon the princess Nyssa’s shimmering silver form, he tried to imagine himself wed to her. It still hardly seemed real. Though there was no more desirable seraph in all of Heaven, and though he knew that many would give their flight feathers for the chance of such advancement, he felt nothing in his heart looking upon her. Her devotion seemed too perfectly assumed, too perfectly executed to be genuine. Her brazen display of her face left him feeling ill at ease. And there was the nagging mystery of her involvement in the Chancellor’s death.
In hindsight, he realized that she might have been just as much of a victim of circumstances on the night of Insulis’ murder as Maciael had been. The Chancellor certainly would have had deep connections with the Order of Mercy. He could well have fostered a relationship with the princess; such a connection would have assisted his efforts in influencing the King. Maciael played the events over in his mind again, trying to make sense of them. Nyssa had suddenly shot up from behind the iconostasis walls. She paused in mid-flight, realizing she was being watched. In her hands she held a decorated staff in such a way as Maciael immediately assumed it was a cynosure. Her eyes flashed with secrets. She opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. What had she thought to say to him? What had been running through her mind?
Even as Maciael knelt in the pew and tried to put the pieces together, her eyes slid over the congregation and came to rest upon him. Her eyes were pale grey, like mirrors, revealed nothing. Still, as she continued to sing in a pure high voice their eyes met, and Maciael felt his pulse quicken. Though her face she betrayed nothing, he felt her eyes measuring his worth and power. She held his gaze even as her voice descended the final cadence and fell quiet. In the silence that followed, all was still in the church. She continued to gaze into his eyes, almost as if she were offering the song to him. The moment lengthened, and Maciael felt other around him stirring uncomfortably. There was a challenge in her flat stare, and he refused to look away. Finally, she lowered her head and broke the connection. Folding her frosted wings, she glided back to her place and gracefully took her place next to the King again, leaving Maciael confused and wondering what had just happened.
After the service, Heaven’s elite were invited by the Royal couple to attend a gala celebration of the Chancellor’s life and work at the palace. Maciael attended late, and reluctantly. He just wasn’t in the mood for politics these days. Besides, he still didn’t know how to face Nyssa, or the King.
By the time he arrived, the ballroom was packed with guests. Everyone who was anyone in Heaven society was there. The room was huge, with marble pillars running down each side and a second-floor balcony overlooking the dance floor. A chamber orchestra filled the air with delicate strains and the dance floor was already filled. Maciael entered without fanfare, made his way upstairs, and found a place on the balcony overlooking the weaving couples.
“The princess gave a beautiful performance at the service, don’t you think?”
Maciael turned to find Lady Mimatense standing next to him. Though properly covered with a full headscarf and flowing ankle-length dress, the widow carried herself in such a way as to suggest beauty and allure. Her eyes were the most dazzling combination of purple flecked with bronze, and were lightly painted in such a way to accentuate their beauty. She held out a perfectly manicured hand towards him in greeting.
“Edalya,” Maciael responded, automatically taking her hand in his and pressing it to his lips. “A pleasure, as always.”
Lady Mimatense inclined her head slightly, and murmured, “The pleasure is always mine.” Her voice was low and intimate, and Maciael found himself reminded why the church required women to be fully covered. Even with that added protection, her influence upon him was significant. He felt himself blushing under her gaze.
“A beautiful display, yes,” he managed. “I’m sure that the Chancellor is now resting in the arms of the Sky Father.”
“Oh?” Her eyes were wide with surprise. “Was there any concern on that front?”
Maciael was immediately put on his heels as he scrambled to discern what she knew, or suspected, about the murder. “Insulis was nothing if not devoted to the church. Why do you ask?”
Edalya laughed gently, and placed her hand lightly on his arm. “Come, come. You know very well that the Chancellor was much more than simply devoted to the church.”
Maciael shifted uncomfortably. Was she suggesting she knew about Maciael’s strategic relationship with the Chancellor? Talking to the Lady Mimatense was like sparring against a dual-wielding opponent. He shifted the discussion back to the princess. “I only meant to say that I agreed with you; that princess Nyssa sang very well.”
“Oh yes,” she answered. For a moment, they stood together simply watching the pairs dancing below. By accident, her body lightly touched against him. Despite her conservative attire, Maciael was excruciatingly aware of her shapeliness. After minute, she turned to him and continued, as if just struck with the thought, “It was curious how she sang for only you, though.”
Maciael coughed. “For me? No, you must be mistaken.”
Edalya squeezed his arm lightly. “Maciael, I was sitting right next to you. Don’t pretend to be so naïve! She clearly has eyes for you. Not that I blame her. Any woman here would be delighted to have the attention of Lord Diluculo.”
Maciael felt his blood rising. Though her words were obvious flattery, they only angered him. He took a step away and gently disengaged her hand from him. “I am a Knight first, and Lord second,” he declared.
Lady Mimatense’s eyes curled and Maciael felt sure that she was silently laughing beneath her veil. “Of course. That is the natural way of things, after all. Many Lords were first Knights, in their youth.”
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Post by Nedward Underhill on May 8, 2009 23:10:44 GMT -6
Maciael did not trust himself to reply to her deliberate misinterpretation of his words. Fortunately, at that moment they were interrupted by a third seraph, a chiselled older Commander from the King’s army. Maciael vaguely recognized him. The fellow was decked out in formal military attire, and moved into their company with a possessive air. He puffed out his chest, and displayed an impressively large pair of wings by holding them slightly away from his body. His eyes moved from Maciael’s face to that of Lady Mimatense.
“Lord Diluculo, have you met Commander Vinca?” Edalya shifted ever so slightly and placed herself just within her date’s wings. Her voice was velvet, but Maciael thought he caught a glimpse of frustration in her eyes.
“Commander,” Maciael nodded.
The Commander offered a stiff bow.
Maciael took the opportunity to excuse himself from their company, and strode off, silently fuming. Though he tried not to show it, Lady Mimatense’s mocking words had cut him. Her implied suggestion was that he was just a child, and too naïve to see that his days as a knight were through. That giving up his holy powers was a natural part of growing up and settling down. But if that was the natural way of things, he had no interest in it. Maciael had no interest in his Lordship. Frankly, if there had been a way to refuse the King’s offer, he would gladly have taken it. But despite his promise to the King, Maciael had not wavered from his resolve to retain his ability to wield prayer. Edalya’s mocking challenge only fuelled his resolve to find a way to remain a knight, even if he were forced into marriage.
Maciael slowed his pace and took a deep breath. Perhaps Edalya had intended for him to get so enraged. Rather than getting angry, he needed to figure out her game. But why would she want to taunt him into rebutting the Princess’ attention? Surely not for herself; she was twice his age! Remembering the influence she played upon him, he had to accept it was possible. Still, something about it didn’t sit right. For one thing, she had never pursued him before, though they had had many dealings and private discussions since he was invited to the King’s Council. With a sudden realization, it dawned on him. Were he to step down from his rank as First Knight and King’s Champion – or be forced out from the knighthood by marriage – someone else would have to fill his seat at the King’s Council. Possibly, someone whose views would be opposed to House Mimatense’s interests.
Maciael stopped in his tracks, the full scope of the realization sinking in. He had been so distracted by the thought of losing his holy powers that he hadn’t given a thought to the political implications of his “advancement” to prince consort. Unless he was invited by the King to fill a seat at the table, and they were all occupied, he would be removed from the King’s Council. With Maciael and Chancellor Insulis gone, this would mean a loss of two orthodox voices at the table of eight. Potentially, a huge shift in power.
Immediately on the heels of this realization, his mind turned back to the night of his startling visit with the King. Cracovia had said that the princess was the one who suggested Maciael as a potential husband. It had struck him as odd at the time, but he been unable to make sense of it and had put it out of his mind. Then events with Shaiah had intervened and distracted him. But now, as he considered the King’s words, he found himself wondering if it was possible that Nyssa had known of the political repercussions that would occur when she suggested the match to her father.
The more he thought about his situation, the greater were his misgivings. He realized that his heart was racing. It felt like a net was closing in around him, its strings soft and beautiful on the outside but strong as iron beneath. He needed to leave; to get some distance and think things through.
The second-floor circled above the dance floor, but also led to an outside balcony overlooking the palace grounds. Maciael pushed through the milling crowd and made his way outside. Before he could take flight, however, Pax suddenly appeared beside him, as if out of thin air. Back at the manse, the Master of Secrets had insisted on coming, and had been nearly beside himself at their delayed arrival. Now he pressed in close and whispered urgently in Maciael’s ear.
“What are you doing? Where have you been?!”
“Not now, Pax. We’re leaving.”
“My Lord, but I’m pretty sure you are going to want to hear this.”
Maciael lowered his wings and turned to listen, his face making evident that it had better be important.
Pax wet his lips. “Apparently, the Princess has been dancing with potential suitors all evening. Particularly Arial Nitidus, who she has accepted at least five times, by all accounts. On top of which, word is that she and Arial were seen drinking out here earlier! The Queen has departed, undoubtedly in disgust, and the King is none too pleased, I assure you!”
“Arial can have her. None of this concerns me.” Maciael’s nonchalance clearly frustrated Pax no end. His whispers took on a cutting edge. “My Lord, I have it on good authority that the King has been impatiently awaiting your arrival. Do you mean to spurn the King’s wishes?”
Maciael suddenly had a headache. He rubbed his temples with the fingers of one hand. “I’m just not in the mood for dancing tonight,” he answered.
The stunted seraph actually stopped stepped back in stupefied amazement. “My Lord, you jest!” he gasped, and then looked around furtively to see if anyone had been listening.
Maciael turned to face his companion, his face into a bland, unreadable mask.
Pax’s eyes bulged. He grabbed hold of Maciael’s sleeve and put his face next to Maciael’s ear. “Surely I do not need to remind you, Lord, that you have accepted the hand of his daughter! It’s bad enough that you have been chasing around after that…vagabond, for a week. Do you have any idea how much damage control I have been doing for you?!” Maciael felt his temper rising at the man’s tone. Pax must have seen it in his body language, for he immediately changed tack. “My Lord, I intend no disrespect, of course. You have hired me to provide you with the best advice possible. And my…urgent advice to you tonight is that you display the proper enthusiasm for the match offered and accepted. Anything less will be an affront to the princess, and to his Majesty’s generosity! Surely you realize…”
As angry as he was with the situation, and with Pax for challenging him, Maciael knew that he was right. He furled his wings with a snap and raised a hand, cutting Pax off. “Enough! Alright. I will approach her and offer…my proper respects.”
Pax flinched at the force of Maciael’s words, but he did not give up. Licking his lips furiously, he released Maciael sleeve and carefully suggested, “Just dance with her. Be relaxed. Charm her.”
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Post by Nedward Underhill on May 11, 2009 23:14:35 GMT -6
Maciael wanted nothing to do with her. But if the King must have a show, Maciael would give him one, he thought. With a scowl, he swept back inside, vaulted over the balcony railing, and descended into the middle of the dance floor right next to the dancing princess. He cut a dramatic figure, what with his height and broad shoulders and Aduro strapped to his back within an ornate golden back scabbard. He was wearing a floor-length russet-coloured vestment that opened above the waist in a “V”. On either side of his chest, elaborate golden filigree flowed over the fabric and onto his shoulders. The skirt of his vestment billowed out around his feet, and his golden locks flew back from his face as he landed. More than a few heads turned, including Nyssa’s and her partner, Arial Nitidus.
Lord Nitidus’ son was Maciael’s height, but leaner, with long straight jet-black hair and wings. Like all of House Nitidus, his skin was pale, almost white, and vaguely translucent. He was dressed in black and red velvet beneath glistening ornamental armour. A long cape was clasped at one shoulder and flowed down his back. At his side, a narrow longsword sat within a black and silver scabbard, its elaborately bejewelled hilt brushing against his waist as he moved.
Maciael made a generous bow to Nyssa, falling on one knee and pressing both hands to his lips for an extended moment. Even as he kept his eyes downcast, he was pleased to see that she stopped dancing and stepped away from her partner. Looking up, he delivered his greeting to Nyssa in a warm carrying voice, looking deeply into her glimmering silver eyes.
“Princess Nyssa, I humbly come before you to beg your undeserved forgiveness. I should have sought your favour hours ago, but I admit I was too transfixed by your radiance to even approach you.”
The music continued, but several of the couples around them slowed to watch the drama unfold.
Arial looked at Maciael, his fine features pinched with haughty loathing. “Really Diluculo. Is this pretentious display absolutely necessary?”
Maciael did not acknowledge Arial’s presence, though his words responded to the seraph’s question. “No amount of display would be sufficient to earn your favour, milady. But I can no longer sit by while you are so roughly dragged over this ballroom floor.”
Arial bristled at the insult. “You value yourself too highly, as always Diluculo. Surely you realize that most here have seen the quality of your dancing?”
Now it was Maciael’s turn to bristle. It was true. He was an average dancer at best. Maciael had been raised to grace a battlefield, not a dance floor. His mother had died while Maciael was too young to remember her, and his father had had little patience for courtly ways. His tutor had seen to it that young Maciael was educated in the necessary basic court etiquette, but even back then Maciael had never been particularly interested in dance. In his twenties, when other noble’s sons were partying, he was at the abbey, devoting himself to his prayers and martial exercises. His knight’s vow of celibacy had actually been something of a relief; they spared him from the daunting task of courtship. Though ballroom dancing was impossible to avoid in high society, Maciael generally avoided it, if he could. Not only was he less than perfectly graceful, the romantic element of couples dancing inevitably made him awkward.
The truth was that Maciael didn’t have a clue how to sweep a woman off her feet. But faced with Arial’s insult and challenge, he was even more determined to win the princess’ favour. Rising to his feet, and turning to face the face his rival, he forced his face into a smile and replied, “Well, the way I see it is that when princess Nyssa dances with you, you make sure that everyone knows that you are a great dancer. But, when she dances with me, everyone will know that she is beautiful.”
Arial spluttered, momentarily speechless. Then he stepped forward and stuck his face next to Maciael’s, his hand on the pommel of his sword. “You think I’m afraid of you?”
Maciael’s blue eyes burned into Arial’s brown orbs, willing him to draw his sword. The dancers around them gave up all pretence of dancing and formed a circle. Even the musicians ground to a halt, as they craned to see what would happen.
Finally, Nyssa’s voice broke the silence. Her voice was soft, but tinged with an undisguised edge of excitement. “Enough. Maciael, what do you want?”
Maciael broke the staring contest, and turned to the princess. A mischievous smile played over her lips, making her even more strikingly beautiful. Despite himself, Maciael found himself blushing.
“Nothing more than a single dance, if you would have me,” he managed.
“Nyssa,” Arial broke in, “Please allow me to get rid…”
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Post by Nedward Underhill on May 14, 2009 22:59:44 GMT -6
“Arial,” Nyssa held up a hand as she spoke, “we have been dancing all night. Surely you won’t object if I allow Maciael’s request?” Her voice was gentle, but the meaning was clear. It was not a request.
Arial bowed his head ever so slightly. “Of course,” he replied. Kissing her hand, he added, “After Maciael finishes stomping on your feet, I just hope you are still in the mood for more dancing.” He turned and departed. On the dance floor, the other couples quietly stepped aside for him.
Maciael felt a moment’s elation at his victory, until the princess’ eyes swung back to him expectantly. Someone clapped sharply, and the music started up again. Maciael swallowed.
Nyssa had changed since the service, and now wore a golden floor-length gown that hugged her body and flared out around her feet. Its light colour perfectly set off the large curls of her let-down hair. The sleeves were bound at her wrists, but split down the sides, causing the pale skin of her arms to occasionally peek out as she moved. Around her neck she wore a necklace of sparkling diamonds that wrapped around her neck three times before draping down heavily almost to her waist, further accentuating her feminine curves. A transparent silver shawl was decoratively draped over her upper wings and hung down to frame her chest. Though technically she was fully and properly covered, she managed to make the whole ensemble look positively indecent.
“Well?” Nyssa tipped her head and smiled playfully up at him. “Are you back to being afraid of me?”
With a start, Maciael realized he was gawking. He stepped up to her and extended his arms in an invitation to dance. Continuing his charade, he boldly answered, “I never stopped, milady. The need for your company merely overcame my fear.”
Nyssa slid forward and into his arms, gently laying one hand on his shoulder and the other on his open palm. Her skin was scented with flowers, and the fragrance surrounded him. They began to slowly spin in time to the music.
It was one thing to leap down over a balcony in a towering rage, and another thing entirely to be holding the princess in his arms. Maciael was far too conscious of Nyssa’s proximity; the touch of her skin against his, the way her body occasionally pressed against his chest. It made him feel even more awkward on the ballroom floor than usual. He concentrated on his footwork, fervently wishing that he had chosen some other way to act the gallant other than claiming dance skill. He felt all eyes on him, taking his measure. As the silence between them dragged on, he began to regret his angry impulse.
“I hear that you were missing for a few days?”
Maciael glanced down to see Nyssa’s glittering eyes measuring his reaction. Pax had anticipated that someone might pose the question, however, so Maciael had a ready answer. He shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, you know. Party in the lower wards.”
“Really?” Her eyes were wide with interest. “I hadn’t thought you were much for wild parties.”
“I have my moments.” Maciael extended his arm and Nyssa perfected a perfect spin before slipping back close again. She placed her right hand on his chest, forcing him to put both hands at her waist. Her scent wafted around him again. It was delicate, but had a subtle musky aroma that reminded him vaguely of the church.
“Really? I think I’d like to see that,” she said. “I had always heard you were a bit more…” She trailed off.
“A bit more…?” he prompted.
She laughed lightly, dismissing the subject. “Oh, I don’t know. So, where was the party? I’m sorry I missed it.”
Maciael’s feet fell out of step while he scrambled to find a suitable answer to her pointed question. The best he could come up with was to joke, “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.” But as soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. He felt her stiffen in his arms as the joke fell flat.
Maciael looked at the couples around them. They were all studiously pretending not to be listening to every word. He quickly tried to shift the conversation to something else. “You sang beautifully at the service today.”
“Thank you,” she said, recovering her poise. “It was an honour to be asked to sing the song of passage for such a great leader of the church.”
“I’m sure that you did him a great service,” Maciael answered. He had intended his answer to be light and casual, but again they didn’t come out right. He just couldn’t get out of his mind images of the last time he had seen the princess, in the cathedral on the night of the Chancellor’s murder. Nyssa’s startled look as she realized she was being watched, the hoar frost on the iconostasis walls, and the frozen pillar of ice encasing the Chancellor. With this shared knowledge of that encounter, his words took on an ironic meaning just for the two of them. Her face flushed and she looked away.
When she answered, the veneer of her voice was still airy, but it had a brittle edge just under the surface. “The Order offers prayers to help all the departed, but Yaelwe would have known how worthy he was.”
Maciael tried to decipher the hidden message. Was she really trying to suggest that the Chancellor was unworthy of Yaelwe’s embrace? Even to hint such a thing was offensive. He answered stiffly, “He was a great leader of the church, and an inspiration to me. He was a big reason why I devoted my life to the church as a knight.”
They made a few more turns across the floor in silence. Nyssa was an impeccable dancer, and floated effortlessly along in front of him. Finally, she turned her eyes back to him and smiled. “Well then, he left a great legacy. We should all be so fortunate.”
She was clearly suggesting that Maciael thought too much of himself. “I merely do my duty to the church and King,” he replied.
She laughed again, prettily, but he heard a mocking edge in it. “Of course you do,” she answered, leaning in to place her mouth by his ear. In a whispered voice, she continued, “When you are not drunk down in the lower wards.”
The rough insult really got his blood up. She was well aware that as an orthodox knight, he would abstain from alcohol. And mostly he did. An appreciation for fine wine and the occasional private transgression certainly did not make him a drunk! He pushed her away from him to arms length again, almost roughly. Her smile was still perfect as she batted her eyes up at him. Inside he was seething.
“Oh, I haven’t upset you, have I?” Nyssa asked, as Maciael offered no conversation. “I was only playing! After all, what else does one do for three days lost down in the wards? I was about to suggest you take me along next time.”
“Actually,” he retorted, grinding to a halt. “The truth is that there was no party. I was attacked by a gang of thugs and injured, quite badly, in fact. I might have died had it not been for a stranger’s assistance.”
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Post by Nedward Underhill on May 18, 2009 13:46:09 GMT -6
The couples around them didn’t even pretend not to have heard. Several gaped openly at Maciael’s words. Someone from the crowd gasped, “Lord Diluculo, are you alright?” Maciael ignored them.
The princess’ poise cracked for a second, revealing her shock and bewilderment. “You’re jesting,” she blurted, before recovering herself. She laughed playfully and answered those around them, “Lord Diluculo is just playing with us!”
A few dancers tittered obligingly, but there was a nervous edge to the laughter.
Across the room, the musicians continued to dance a lilting, cheery tune, forgotten.
“Why would I lie?” he demanded.
Nyssa’s eyes gazed at him, her silver eyes unreadable again. “Which time, milord? When you said you were at a party for three days, or when you said you were attacked by a wild band of cutthroats?”
Maciael felt himself blushing. Though delivered with perfect sincerity, her question effectively made him look like a swaggering liar. Maciael stood unmoving in the middle of the dance floor, his eyes smouldering.
Nyssa lowered her eyes demurely, and smiled. “Lord Diluculo, you seemed quite determined to have this dance, and now here I stand alone.”
Maciael took her back into his arms. She nestled back into place as if nothing had happened. The dancers swirled around them, watching them out of the corners of their eyes. Maciael stumbled into another couple, and then accidentally stepped on the hem of the princess’ dress. She smoothed over both altercations with perfect grace, which only made Maciael feel more awkward. He didn’t know how she was doing it, but he could not shake the feeling that Nyssa was deliberately tripping him up and making him look like a fool.
“Please tell me about this dramatic attack,” she said, her lips glistening with excitement. “And saved by a mysterious stranger! It all sounds so very exciting.”
Though the nobles around them might not realize it, there was no question in Maciael’s mind that she was mocking him. “I should not have spoke of it,” he said stiffly.
“Oh, you can’t deny us now!” Her voice was pitched to carry well around them. She was clearly enjoying herself, making him squirm. “It must have been quite a gang to defeat our King’s Champion!”
Maciael saw an opportunity, and took it. Two can play such games, he thought. In a taleteller’s voice, he answered, “Well, milady, you need to understand that I wasn’t myself that night. You see, it was the same night as the Chancellor’s death. The discovery had affected me greatly, and I was recovering from a strange, and sudden chill.” A cruel smile touched Maciael’s lips even as he toyed with the idea of letting the assembled nobles in on the exact details of the Chancellor’s demise.
For a second, Maciael saw a look of panic flash through Nyssa’s eyes. A moment later she dropped them, and it was hidden.
“I’m sure that we were all affected that night,” she sighed. “But let us not talk of that. You said that you went to the wards?”
Maciael allowed himself to be diverted. Better that he hold the threat of revealing her secret back, in any event. “I wanted to clear my head and cheer my spirits, so I headed down for some entertainment. While there, I was tricked, lured into a back alley, and knifed.” He drew a line across his neck with a finger.
Nyssa laughed gaily. “Come now, Maciael! Surely you don’t expect us to believe that you would be foolish enough to fall for such a simple trick, or could be bested so easily.”
Her subtle dig was not lost upon him. He knew he had been careless that night, but had no intention of admitting it to her, or anyone else for that matter. “As any knight can tell you, it only takes one incautious moment to be undone,” he said.
“But surely you had defensive wards and prayers protecting you? And an entourage, with guards… ”
Maciael affected surprise, even as he turned the tables. “Princess, I am shocked that you would expect me to take such precautions. Don’t zealots maintain that the less fortunate are merely misunderstood, and can reformed with kindness?”
Nyssa smiled tightly. “Believing in the essential goodness of others is not the same as being naïve, Lord Diluculo. Something that you orthodox routinely fail to understand.” She left his arms, flicked her wings, and spun spectacularly. When she returned into his arms, she shook her blonde hair and dismissed further conversation on the subject. “Politics is boring. I want to hear how you survived.”
Maciael was momentarily distracted by thoughts of Shaiah. “Only by the grace of the God,” he muttered.
“But who was the stranger who saved you?”
Maciael had no intention of telling anyone about the woman who had saved him. He shrugged casually. “I never got her name,” he said.
“Ooh, a mystery woman,” Nyssa breathed. Her voice became flirtatious. “I wonder if I should be worried?”
Maciael refused to allow her to reduce their conversation into courtship banter. “My story is not isolated,” he pressed. “The lower wards are becoming a serious problem. As you yourself admit, it’s no longer safe to travel Heaven without guard. This is a matter that I intend to bring to the King’s Council.”
After an almost imperceptible hesitation, Nyssa replied, “I agree. Something should be done. I would be more than happy to speak with my father about the issue on your behalf.”
Maciael felt himself stiffen. He didn’t need an intermediary to bring his requests to the King. Neither did he want her speaking on his behalf. But she had played her hand well. How could he be critical of her when she was the soul of compassion? To be anything but gracious in return would be low and ill mannered.
“Thank you,” he answered. “I appreciate your generous offer.”
“It is nothing. House Diluculo—” She paused, reconsidering. Then she raised her eyes timidly and touched his face. “Your well being, Maciael, is of great importance to all of us.”
Her inflection, body language, and words all made clear to everyone around them that she favoured him. Her perfect face tipped up towards him, filled with a child-like adoration. Maciael had never felt more revolted. As he looked down into those perfect, glittering eyes, all he could think about was the look of undisguised panic in her eyes when he had alluded to the Chancellor’s murder. He might not be able to prove her a hoar witch, but there was no question in his mind that behind those glittering eyes was a devious intelligence intent on bending him to its will.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on May 18, 2009 22:56:42 GMT -6
Around them, Maciael felt the prying nobles fairly leaning in with excitement, awaiting his reaction. This was Nyssa’s territory. Surrounded by an audience, and playing at court intrigue, he would be hard-pressed to best her. Of course, he had not planned on trading barbs with her. He had intended to play the gallant so as not to offend the King. Somehow, he found himself perversely fighting against her advances. How had that happened? It didn’t make any sense. Hadn’t she suggested their union to the King? If she was trying to lure him in, she was doing a terrible job of it. It was almost as if Nyssa wanted to anger him, the way she spoke to him. Or perhaps, her realized, merely keep him off balance so as to dominate their encounter.
Suddenly, it dawned on his how to escape her clutches. Maciael slowed his steps. He forced his body to relax and shifted his hands to Nyssa’s waist. Her smile widened, and she stepped closer to him, pressing her body lightly against him and clasping her hands about his neck. Her smell and physical presence was intoxicating, but instead of fighting it, he embraced it.
“Your kindness means everything to me, milady,” he cooed. “It is a gift I shall cherish always. And so, perhaps I can leave you with a one as well.”
Unfurling his wings, he lifted them both into the air. The vaulted ceiling in the ballroom was more than ten yard in height. Even weighed down by the startled princess, it took only a few strong strokes of his wings and they were suspended well above the second balcony, far out of immediate earshot of the stunned onlookers.
Even as the princess stared at him with shock and horror, Maciael began to spin in the air with her. He let her slip just enough so that she fluttered her wings to balance herself. He allowed himself a broad, lecherous smile, savouring her mortification. Dancing in the air had overtly sexual overtones, suggestive of seraphim aerial coupling. One might see lovers engaging in such behaviour at the wild parties in the lower wards. Such public displays were, of course, frowned upon in better society. Maciael could not have been more offensive if he had ripped the flimsy veil off her face.
Now that he had her away from the nobles, he leaned in close and placed his cheek against hers. Then he whispered in her ear, “Let this be my parting gift to you, princess. You may fool everyone else with your false piety, but you and I both know the truth.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek, and then added, as an afterthought, “And if you think that you can eliminate me like you did the Chancellor, you don’t know me.”
“Oh!” Nyssa pulled her head back, her eyes filled with outrage. Flapping her wings furiously, she pushed herself out of his arms. Maciael reached out to her with one hand, exaggerating the part of the ardent suitor. For a second her mouth moved up and down, as she spluttered speechless before him. Then she hauled back and slapped him hard across the face.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Jul 28, 2009 22:31:44 GMT -6
Chapter 11
“What in Heaven’s name got into you?!”
Back at the manse, Paxiamon paced back and forth on the balcony outside Maciael’s bedchamber, wringing his hands. Maciael stood within, watching with interest as the Master of Secrets periodically appeared within the open doorway, and then paced back out of sight. He had never seen Pax so worked up.
“Lord?” Divio stuck his head in from the doorway on the far side of the room. “Is everything alright? I hadn’t expected you home early…”
Maciael waved his page in, indicating by body language that he wished help out of his formal attire. In stark contrast to the Master of Secrets, his mood was light, even jubilant.
Pax continued to pace, waving his arms in the air as he spoke. “All you needed to do was politely ask the princess for a dance! For crying out loud, she was waiting for you to ask her. She even showed her favour at the ceremony this afternoon. How could it be any easier?”
“I did ask her,” Maciael answered.
“But not without making a spectacle of yourself, and further – and unnecessarily – straining relations with House Nitidus. You do realize that Arial spent your entire dance chirping behind your back and further consolidating his influence against you? I may have mentioned before the possibility that you might one day need their support for some political action…”
Maciael shrugged. He wasn’t concerned about Arial, and had little hope of ever enjoying the support of House Nitidus.
Pax again reappeared within the open doors. “Then, having got the princess’ attention, you proceed to argue with her!”
“You were listening to our conversation?” Maciael smiled mischievously, lifting his arms to assist Divio’s quiet efforts.
“Everyone was listening to your conversation!”
Maciael reflected. “She just has a way of ruffling my feathers,” he said. “I don’t know how she does it.”
At that, Pax stalked into the room and right up to Maciael, pointing a finger into his face. “It seemed to me that you set out to deliberately insult her. And what was that about, admitting the truth about what happened in the lower wards? We talked about that! We rehearsed it!”
“She called me a drunk.”
Pax held his hands up in supplication. “It was playful banter! Frankly, I thought she was impressed.”
Maciael frowned with disapproval. “If that was a joke, Pax, it was in bad taste. One does not joke about drinking to a knight.”
The Master of Secrets breathed out heavily, showing his frustration. “Everyone drinks, Maciael! Most of the Council get drunk. Regularly. Hell, most of the Holy Fathers in the church are drunks!”
Maciael’s scowl darkened. “Pax, you forget yourself.”
Divio had stripped Maciael down to his silken undertunic and sandals. As Pax subsided, his page put in quietly, “Which evening gown, milord?”
“Anything; it doesn’t matter,” Maciael answered absently. Then, as Divio turned away, he said, “Wait; no. The white one, with the fur.” Despite the Master of Secrets’ panic, Maciael felt like he had won the exchange with Nyssa tonight, and he wanted to luxuriate.
Pax’s wings fluttered anxiously. “Milord, I mean no disrespect, of course. Never mind the drinking; that is the least of our troubles. After your rough treatment of the princess tonight, we will be lucky if she ever speaks to you again.”
Maciael turned and faced the disfigured seraph, smiling broadly. “Exactly.”
The look on Pax’s face was so priceless, that Maciael could not help laughing. Divio reappeared and helped Maciael into his robe while he continued to shake with laughter. Every time it would start to abate, he would look back at the blank and confused look on Pax’s face and start up again.
Divio smiled sheepishly, not knowing what the joke was. “Will there be anything else, Milord?”
“Yes. I’m starving. Pax, are you hungry?”
Pax spluttered something incomprehensible. Maciael instructed Divio to have the head chef send up enough for both of them. He considered breaking out some wine to celebrate, but Nyssa’s barb still stung, and he thought better of it.
As the door closed behind Divio, Maciael led the way back out to the balcony. The night was warm, with just a hint of chill in the air. He stood with his hands on the marble railing, looking out over the lights of Heaven and replaying the encounter in his mind. Pax slumped against a nearby pillar, rubbing his temple with his fingers.
“I’ll not be marrying her, Pax. I’ve looked into her eyes, and seen all the proof I need. Nyssa’s responsible for the Djannus’ death. She is the enemy. I don’t know what her plan is, exactly, but it’s clear that she means to eliminate me just as she did the Chancellor.”
“Milord, with all due respect…”
“Don’t argue with me, Pax.” He changed the subject. “ What did your inquiries at the cathedral reveal about the night of the Chancellor’s murder?”
The Master of Secrets clearly wanted to discuss Maciael’s announced decision. He stood staring at Maciael, licking his lips and shaking with the effort of controlling his tongue. Maciael waited, not granting him leave to ask questions. Finally, Pax moved on.
“Not much,” he began. “No one seems to have any idea what the Chancellor was up to that night. He dismissed the other Fathers several hours before he died. But that is not unusual. He often worked late, and alone, and generally kept his business private.”
Maciael nodded. “But I heard voices in the Holy of Holies that night, while I was waiting.”
“According to my sources, that is not possible. Chancellor Insulis ordered that the doors be locked and that no one be allowed to enter the sanctuary.”
“Didn’t the Chancellor’s instructions raise suspicions? Surely someone was curious.”
“Certainly they were curious, but they all swear that they obeyed. The Chancellor was a powerful man, and heavily involved in political affairs. Overly curious priests don’t last long at the cathedral. Evidently, they all knew better than to disobey him.”
Maciael turned away. “So you found out nothing.”
He heard Pax stiffen at the rebuke. “With all due respect, I was somewhat distracted by the need to comb the city for you after you disappeared that night, Lord. I have not finished my investigation into the matter. Besides, I did learn one thing, although was hesitant to mention it without making more inquiries.”
“Oh?”
“Though the use of certain incentives, I have cultivated a friendship with a few of the cathedral guards—”
Maciael held up a hand. “Pax, I’ve told you before I do not wish to know your methods, just your results. Come to the point.”
Pax licked his lips. “Certainly, Lord. On the night of the Chancellor’s death, a guard was posted outside the front entry into the cathedral.”
“I remember.” Maciael had barely managed to escape discovery as they barged into the sanctuary.
“The point is this,” Pax continued. “Apparently the Chancellor didn’t ask that a guard be posted. The command came after the doors were sealed, and was given by Archdeacon Eonymus.”
“So? ”
“As I said,” Pax bobbed his head modestly, “I don’t know how much turns on this. But from the comments I received from the clergy, it was clear to me that there was no need for a guard. No one would have dared disobeyed Insulis.”
“Perhaps they were to keep the public out?” Maciael mused.
Pax shook his head. “I checked. There were no services announced for that evening. The front doors would have been locked to the public.”
Maciael leaned on the railing, considering. “Why would the Archdeacon have suddenly taken such an interest in the Chancellor’s safety?”
With a satisfied gleam in his eye, Pax replied, “I was planning on asking him that myself.”
“Milord?” Divio appeared in the doorway, followed by a pair of servants, each carrying heavy-laden platters of food. At the Page’s direction, they laid the fare on a nearby table.
“Thank you, Divio. That will be all.”
Pax too turned on his heel, but Maciael held his arm to prevent the Master of Secrets from leaving. “Join me a moment. There’s plenty of food here, and it strikes me that perhaps we should both plan for a visit to the cathedral. I’d like to get to know this Archdeacon.”
*****
The following evening, Maciael attended the evening mass at the cathedral. It was a smaller service, sung entirely by the fathers, and intended for quiet contemplation. A few dozen congregants sat quietly and apart, hushed and still. With so few present, the feeling within the space was completely different from that of the Chancellor’s funeral, or even a fortnight service. The singsong chant of the fathers rose up from within the holy of holies, but the sounds were muted and subdued. The great vaulted ceiling towered over the worshippers, demanding devout awe and silently demonstrating their insignificance. Maciael always enjoyed these still times of worship, and allowed himself be momentarily drawn away by the sacred verses.
Ever since the incident down in the lower ward, Captain Duans had refused to allow Maciael to go anywhere without a proper escort. As a result, there had been no way to sneak into the service, even had Maciael wished to. They had settled on six guards for this outing, as well as the Captain himself, who had insisted on feeling in need of prayer. Not surprisingly, there had been a small flurry of activity when Maciael stepped into the cathedral. Archdeacon Eonymus himself had rushed out to extend a warm greeting to him before the service began.
“Lord Diluculo, so good to see you! Don’t you normally take evening mass with the Order of the Dawn?” Eonymus was a strikingly short and rotund seraph, with close-cropped white hair that stuck out from his head like a fuzzy halo. His face was expressive, with features that seemed too large for his tiny face. His hands were soft and moist as they shook Maciael’s energetically.
“So I do. But I have heard that your meditation series on the disobedience of Cal were not to be missed.”
The Archdeacon blinked with surprise. “Really? I am so honoured! I have become quite absorbed by it. Such a fascinating study, and a valuable perspective into human-seraph relations.”
“I see,” Maciael replied. Pax had prepared him adequately for the seraph’s scholarly enthusiasm, as well as his liberal leanings. “A difficult subject matter.”
“Indeed. But very much in need of balanced consideration in these, dare I say it, fractious times. In my humble opinion, there is wisdom to be drawn from either perspective on the issue.”
“I look forward to hearing your thoughts on the issue,” Maciael answered, taking note of the seraph’s efforts at diplomacy.
The Archdeacon’s meditation was similarly diplomatic. It involved associating the ancient human belief in Cal as a god of war, before their adoption of the true faith, as an act of defiance against Yaelwe. Just as Cal was punished, so too humanity was condemned to crawl upon the earth. This orthodox message he then counter-balanced by presenting the saint’s repentance and new sight as a metaphor for how their earthly brethren might similarly be returned to harmony with the Seraphim. The whole thing involved citations from at least a half-dozen clerical writings, and was designed to offend no one. Maciael only half-listened.
Apparently the Archdeacon had been preaching variations on the same theme every night for the last ten days. With the impending selection of a new Chancellor, the Archdeacon’s sudden interest in preaching, coupled with his ultimately bland, and politically expedient message, was anything but coincidental. There was no question in Maciael’s mind of Eonymus’ ambition. Good, he thought. A drive for power was something he understood, and knew how to use.
Maciael lingered in his pew after the service was over, continuing his silent devotions and waiting for the cathedral to empty. Finally, Duans coughed lightly, signalling that the last of the congregants had been ushered out. Maciael rose and approached the Archdeacon alone, smiling as he slid forward.
“Ah, Lord Diluculo,” Eonymus began, grasping Maciael warmly. “I hope our humble service suited you?”
“Excellent! I found myself captivated by your message. The news of your wisdom is well founded. The church needs someone like you, I think.” Maciael paused for emphasis, and then took a quick breath and shifted the conversation. “I was not aware that the writings of Aelius were so relevant to the journey of the divine spirit. That’s quite a find.”
Pax had, of course, spent the last day gathering information and preparing Maciael extensively for the encounter.
“Oh! I…ah…really? Thank you! You are too kind.”
“No, not at all. I know that some find his writing to be over-zealous, but I think that may be a bit unfair. It really only applies to his earlier works. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Eonymus could not stop his enthusiasm from spilling over. “That’s exactly how I feel! I know he’s not the most popular theologian, these days, but you really just need to choose the work…”
After fifteen minutes mild effort, Maciael had managed to persuade the Archdeacon to join him for a small bite back at the Diluculo manse. The Archdeacon fairly fell all over himself in his haste to accept the invitation.
Though evening had fallen, a warm current wafted over the city as their small troop left the cathedral and rose up into the air. Naewin sat fat and bright over the city, lending more than enough light to see their way. All the same, Maciael paused to pray for illumination, knowing full well that the sight of him infused with light would dazzle the cleric at his side. Eonymus had hustled back to the cathedral’s residence and had changed into what was no doubt his best casual attire, a black ankle-length vestment, decorated at the cuffs and on either side of the button-down front with coloured embroidery. Maciael noted the frayed threading and loose buttons with pleasure. This was looking to be easier than he had expected.
The guards spread out to provide a modicum of privacy to the pair as they flew over the upper city and approached the Diluculo estate. As soon as the they stepped out of the cathedral, Maciael noticed that it suddenly became difficult to keep the Archdeacon’s attention. The smaller seraph’s eyes continuously scanned around them and over the city streets below them.
“Expecting to see someone tonight?” Maciael asked, casually.
“Expecting?” Ah…no. It’s nothing. Just, umm, just enjoying the view.”
Maciael decided not to press for the truth. “Indeed. It’s a beautiful city. I particularly enjoy nightfall, just as the moons start to rise and the lights cascade away down to the lower wards.” He directed the conversation to casual topics as they flew on together.
Maciael had left Pax in charge or preparing the staff for their arrival, and was pleased to see the Diluculo grounds alight as they approached. Thousands of lightstones litters the yards, illuminating the manicured lawns, flower gardens, and cascading rivulets. The impoverished cleric’s eyes grew wide in admiration.
Maciael led his guest to the upper landing, where Pax stood waiting.
“Archdeacon Eonymus,” Maciael said, dismissing the guard, “Have you met my aide, Paxiamon Glauca?”
“Yes, we have, though briefly,” Eonymus answered. He inclined his head to Pax. “Master Glauca.”
Pax offered a deep bow. “Please, just call me Pax.” To Maciael, he offered, “I trust that the evening mass was enjoyable?”
“More than enjoyable! The Archdeacon preached an excellent meditation. One of the best I’ve heard, honestly.”
The Archdeacon beamed. “You are too kind, Lord Diluculo!”
Maciael waved a hand dismissively. “Not at all,” he corrected. Changing the subject, he continued, “Now, did I mention that I have an illustrated copy of Vargalius’ Canticles for a Sacred Air in my library? I think you referenced one of the passages in your meditation?”
Pax fell in behind them, offering the occasional prompt and slowly nudging the conversation toward their true goal. Maciael took his time, waiting for Eonymus to take the bait. For matters such as this, the essential thing was not to rush to the point, but to get there when the guest was ready. Maciael didn’t mind; he was enjoying himself, showing off some of the treasures within the manse. The Diluculo library was actually quite extensive, with a particular focus on sacred writings. When brought into the library, the Archdeacon behaved like a beggar at a King’s banquet.
“I had no idea you owned so many texts in their original Lamant!” The Archdeacon breathed, lovingly running a hand over the spine of a particularly ancient tome.
“Our family has been wielding prayer for as long as the histories have been maintained. At least as far back as the ascendance of the seraphim and the establishment of the first Daurican King. There are no other copies of some of these works.”
Eonymus nervously pulled his hand away from the tome. “Is the church aware of this? Surely these works should be studied by the monks of the Abbey of Rising Lights, to aid in the training of future knights, like yourself.”
Maciael placed a friendly hand on Eonymus’ shoulder. “An excellent suggestion. Do you have any connections at the abbey, such that you might assist in this?”
“Certainly!” Eonymus rattled off a half dozen scholars’ names.
“Excellent. These works are quite precious to me. You know, Tafon—may I call you Tafon?”
“Of course!”
“With your knowledge and connections, experience at the Cathedral, and strong preaching skills, I would not be surprised to see you the next Chancellor.”
Eonymus blushed like a child, and fell all over himself trying to appear humble. He patted his chest with one hand as he spoke. “Oh! Really! You are too kind, Lord Diluculo! But then I only pray that I might serve the church…I mean, continue to serve the church… is some capacity. I have tried to do my small part. But, if it were the will of the church fathers, I would… all is in Yaelwe’s hands, of course.”
“Of course. But it never hurts to have strong hands praying with you, hm?” Maciael winked.
He led the way to one of the manse’s luxurious parlours. A comfortable fire was kindles in a great hearth and cast a welcoming glow over an arc of stuffed chairs arranged before it. A plush silver-white vellarix-skin rug covered the tiled floor. The walls were decorated with various portraits of Diluculo Lords and Ladies, along with various precious artefacts. The entire atmosphere was intended to comfort and impress.
Given that Eonymus was a seraph of the cloth, they had decided not to offer any of the Diluculo reserve. However, there was no church prohibition on incense, including those with mild sedative effects. Pax lit a few strands and busied himself ensuring that the manse staff met all of Eonymus’ needs even before he had to ask. The Archdeacon was shortly ensconced in a supple leather chair, seated before a dancing fire, and nibbling from a tray of aperitifs.
“You mentioned that the Archdeacon’s meditation really got you thinking,” Pax prompted.
“Indeed. Quite a fascinating study.”
“Most certainly!” Eonymus obliged, sipping iced nectar contentedly from a fluted crystal goblet.
“Tafon,” Maciael began, “correct me if I am wrong, but your meditation seemed, in a small way, to show a middle way between the orthodox and zealot understanding of seraphim-human relations.”
The Archdeacon puffed up with pride. “Exactly my point! The way I see it, the human problem has come to so divide us, that many have lost sight of how scripture itself can show us a common ground. As I said this evening…”
Pax interrupted the Archdeacon before he could regurgitate his whole meditation. “I had understood you to be more zealous.”
Eonymus couldn’t disagree fast enough. “Oh no! No. Not at all!”
“Oh?” Maciael replied. “But what about your study on human sexuality, Made in Yaelwe’s Own Image?” Pax had, of course, uncovered that particular tidbit from the Archdeacon’s youth. It was the sort of dirt that Pax was particularly good at finding.
Eonymus almost spit out his drink. “A graduate thesis! I was so young back then. Besides, everyone was starry-eyed about the humans!”
Maciael nodded, accepting the small seraph’s excuses. “Well, that is good to hear. As you may know, Diluculos have always been orthodox in our faith. Not only regarding the lower races, but also with respect to other matters that are starting to preoccupy the church, like the role of women for example.”
Eonymus had clearly gotten Maciael’s oblique offered of support for his Chancellery. He squirmed, trying to cast off his liberal leanings. “Well… I do think… that we spend an inordinate amount of time arguing such matters…”
“I find scripture quite clear on the point,” Maciael pointed out. “…And as you shall made to be most pleasing to thy husband, so you must be modest above all things. In this way shall you help and guide his thoughts back unto me.”
“Ah. Yes. An oft-quoted passage.” Eonymus answered. “Of course, some might—I say might, and not I, of course—argue that the context is key to understanding that particular verse…”
Maciael allowed Archdeacon to twist himself into knots for a few minutes more before covertly signalling to Pax to lead them into the main business of the visit.
Moments later, Captain Duans presented in the doorway. “Milord.” He bowed stiffly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there is a matter I must bring to your attention.”
Maciael looked up sharply. “Captain, can you not see that I have an important guest?”
Pax jumped to his feet. “Lord, Allow me to see to this.”
Maciael nodded, and Pax followed the Captain out of the room. A moment later, however, Pax returned and approached to whisper in Maciael’s ear. Naturally, by this point, the Archdeacon was thoroughly engaged. As if by accident, Maciael responded to the whispered words with the muttered exclamation, “The princess? No!” He then rubbed his lips in deep contemplation.
“I am happy to leave, if a matter required you attention, Lord Diluculo,” Eonymus offered.
Maciael shook his head. “No. I fear that this may concern you as well, Archdeacon.” Turning back to Pax, he commanded, “Leave us.”
“Yes, Milord.” Pax bowed, then turned on his heel and flew from the room.
The Archdeacon shrank into his seat, his eyes on Maciael.
“Disturbing news,” Maciael began, “relating to the sudden death of Chancellor Insulis. Apparently, his death was not as we have been led to believe.”
Fear skipped through Eonymus’ eyes. “Are you sure? Insulis was quite old. As the King announced…”
“I understand the official position on the Chancellor’s death, and I am sure there is good reason for it. But surely you are aware of the rumours surrounding his demise?”
The Archdeacon swallowed and nodded.
“I too wasn’t satisfied with the official position. I could not believe that the Chancellor died peacefully in his prayers, as the King would have us believe. Djannus Insulis was a close friend of mine. And though he was aged, I knew him to be quite hale and hearty. His death was a terrible blow to me. So…I began to make inquiries. You yourself spoke briefly with Pax, if I remember correctly.”
Maciael rose from his seat and began to pace about the study. Eonymus’ wide eyes were fixed upon him.
“All of these inquiries were kept discrete, of course,” Maciael continued. “The cathedral investigation was not particularly productive. Many were preoccupied at the time” – he tipped a hand Tafon’s way – “…like yourself. Naturally, I made other inquiries as well,” he lied. “Unfortunately, my efforts were successful.”
“Unfortunately?” Eonymus asked.
“Yes.” Maciael answered. “Unfortunate, as it now appears that matters are far worse than I thought. Tafon, I have just now confirmed that the Chancellor was murdered in the cathedral that night.”
“Oh my.”
Maciael noted with satisfaction that that Eonymus did not deny it. “Come now, Tafon. Let us be candid with each other. On the night of his death, Djannus asked that the sanctuary be closed so that he might meet an important visitor. That seraph betrayed him and took his life.”
“An extraordinary claim,” Eonymus replied. His words were cautious, but he sat on the edge of his seat, clearly eager to know where Maciael was going with the discussion. Maciael became more confident.
“Let me be blunt. I asked you to stay because I believe you have information about this visit. And, if I am right, you also know the threat that she now represents to you.”
Maciael saw fear creep back into the Archdeacon’s eyes. “I assure you, I don’t know…”
“Come now! Do not dissemble. You ordered that a guard be stationed outside the church doors!”
The small seraph’s eyes popped wide with shock. “How…?”
“Never mind how I know,” Maciael pressed. “The question is, why?”
Now was the moment of truth, when Maciael would see if all of the evening’s efforts paid off. He had used every form of persuasion that he could: flattery, charm, promise of advancement, and now he played upon the seraph’s fears. Hopefully, it was enough. Otherwise, what he was about to say might well get him executed.
“Tafon,” Maciael lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I already know that it was the Princess Nyssa who met with the Chancellor that night. I know what she is capable of; I saw the dark rite with my own eyes! Now, if you were involved in any way, you are in danger. She will not want anyone with knowledge of what she has done to remain alive. But I can help you. I want to help you, Tafon. But I need to know more!”
The Archdeacon swelled to his feet and stood quivering in front of Maciael, looking down on him with his mouth open and a terrified look in his eyes. Crumbs stuck to his clothes, forgotten. The unfinished nectar quavered inside the glass in his hand. Maciael waited, trying to keep him face calm. After a long moment, Tafon carefully placed the glass down on the table.
“I must go,” he warbled. Without another word, he turned and fairly fled to the door.
Maciael leapt to his feet, rage and frustration welling up inside of him. He had somehow botched it! Eonymus had agreed to nothing; admitted nothing. Instead of an admission, all Maciael had done was damn himself with an open accusation against the princess. Now this pathetic little seraph would hold power over him! In his current state of terror, Tafon might not realize it yet, but when he got back to the cathedral and calmed down he would surely see the opportunity for political influence, or even blackmail. There were no witnesses to their conversation, and Maciael would certainly deny it, but would it matter? One whispered word to the King, or even Kovensis, and Maciael could well find himself cast out of the Council, or worse. On top of which, if Eonymus was indeed in league with Nyssa, Maciael’s efforts would be revealed to her.
All of these thoughts raced through Maciael’s mind in an instant, even as the Archdeacon beetled across the room. Maciael felt the overpowering urge to strike down the fleeing figure. Persuasion had failed; he would force an admission from the little seraph’s lips! He grabbed Aduro and yanked it out of its sheath. Already the words were on his lips to seal the door and trap Eonymus in with him:
“Conprehendat eos!”
With the grinding rattle of invisible chains snapping into place, the doors shook and were sealed. Too late, the Archdeacon yanked on the door handles without avail. His head swivelled back to Maciael, and the whites of his eyes swelled with fear at what he saw. Turning, he threw his back against the doors, working one hand frantically into the front of his vestment.
Maciael’s sword was alight in his hand. Maciael felt the rush of its intoxicating power as he studied the quavering seraph before him.
“I don’t think we are quite done.” Maciael’s voice echoed with holy power.
Eonymus drew out a small worn prayer book from an inside pocket, and held it up before him. It lit up in his hands as he burbled out a prayer.
“Exaudi Deus deprecationem Meam intende orationi meae…”
A prayer of warding! Maciael barked out a condescending laugh as he flew slowly towards the cowering Archdeacon. “Surely you do not believe that your prayers can protect you from mine? Do you have any idea how insignificant your warding is to me?”
Tafon closed his eyes, held the prayer book before his lips, and prayed harder:
“…Inhabitabo in tabernaculo tuo in saecula protegar in velamento alarum tuarum!”
A shield of light surrounded the Archdeacon, but in Maciael’s eyes it was pathetic and weak. Righteous anger flowed through Maciael’s veins. With divine certainty, he knew that Tafon was guilty of colluding with the dark witch. Light poured off of him. His voice shook the air.
“You will tell me of what I wish to know, else you will be judged. Now, speak!”
“You can’t do this!” Tafon cried. “I’ll report you to the King’s guard!”
As if from far off, Maciael heard knocking on the sealed doors. He ignored it. Landing before Eonymus, he decided to demonstrate how trivial the seraph’s warding was to him. With a few muttered words, he summoned fire to lick over the seraph’s skin. The stench of burning flesh filled the room. Tafon screamed in pain.
“Please!” Tafon begged. “God! I know nothing! Why are you doing this?”
“Djannus was a friend of mine. Why did you summon the guard on the night he was killed?” Maciael asked.
“Yaelwe preserve me!” Tafon breathed.
“Your sins condemn you,” Maciael snarled, “and your prayers are weak! Answer me!”
The beating on the door became sharper, more powerful. Evidently, someone had drawn steel and was trying to hack through the wood. Maciael needed to hurry. Thrusting his hand through the Archdeacon’s flimsy shield, he grabbed hold of Eonymus by the lapel of his vestment and hauled him up into the air. He placed Aduro under the Archdeacon’s neck, drawing blood.
“Please don’t hurt me!” Tafon begged.
The Archdeacon’s pathetic screeching only fuelled Maciael’s righteous rage. A spout of flame burst from Maciael’s sword at a murmured word, and Tafon screamed in pain. He thrashed wildly, trying to get away from the fire, drawing his own blood on Maciael’s sword in the process. The cut was far too reminiscent of the wound Maciael had himself received down in the lower wards, at the hands of the street thugs. Shocked, Maciael released the Archdeacon. The small seraph collapsed, dropping his cynosure and holding his charred and bloody neck with both hands. He was crying.
Behind the Archdeacon, the wood of the door began to splinter and break. He had less than a minute before they broke through. Maciael grabbed the short seraph and hauled him away from the door. It was difficult to speak over the battery.
“Listen to me, Eonymus. I will ask you one more time only. Why did you summon a guard that night?”
“I hoped to catch whoever it was! To arrest them!” Tafon gasped. “I didn’t know… I never dreamed that it might be the Princess!
“You knew the Chancellor was going to be murdered?”
“No! I only knew,” Tafon was having trouble breathing. Blood seeped out from between his fingers. “…that he was in danger. I thought, if he called out, and I had a guard standing near, we might…we might save him.”
Maciael look down on the pathetic seraph before him with loathing. “Guards posted outside the front doors would not be near enough to save him, but might be near enough to arrest whoever killed him, and set you up as a hero.”
Eonymus said nothing.
“How long have you been spying on the Chancellor?” Maciael growled. It was the only way that he could have known enough to set up the double-cross.
Eonymus hesitated until Maciael began to move Aduro forward. “A year. Maybe two. Please! I didn’t know…I had no idea it might be the Princess! I received my instructions anonymously!”
“And what were your instructions that night?”
Eonymus looked up at Maciael. His flesh was blistered on one side, and spattered with tears and blood. His eyes were filled with despair. “I was told that Insulis would be receiving a special guest that night. I was to assemble a guard and ensure that no one disturbed the meeting. If I did as instructed, I would become Chancellor, as promised.”
With a great crack and explosion of wood, the door gave way at last, and Duans, flanked by a dozen Diluculo guards, raced into the room.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Jul 30, 2009 22:33:37 GMT -6
“Put up your weapons,” Maciael commanded, even as they were surrounded. Duans’ eyes scanned over the scene, cataloguing every detail. Tafon knelt at Maciael’s feet, battered, bleeding, and obviously no danger to anyone. His small prayer book and cynosure lay where he had dropped it, the edge of its pages blackened and charred. His head was down and his body was wracked with sobs.
“Milord, what…” Duans began.
“Get this worm out of my sight,” Maciael commanded.
One of the guard knelt down to inspect Tafon’s injuries. “He’s bleeding quite freely, Captain,” he reported. “Should we summon a healer?”
“No!” Maciael snapped. “Let him bleed.”
Duans looked at Maciael in surprise, but didn’t argue. Turning, he barked a few orders. The guards took hold of the Archdeacon and began to drag him off.
As they reached the door, Maciael added, “Don’t release him! Put him in a locked room and keep him there.”
A small crowd of manse staff and servants were peeking in through the shattered door, taking in the scene. Maciael saw fear and fascination in their eyes, and suddenly became conscious of the fact that the situation did not reflect well upon him. He stood unscathed, while Tafon was a miserable wreck. With an effort, he allowed the godsfire to dwindle and go out, and closed his eyes to bear the sharp ache of its loss. Then, sheathing Aduro, he gestured at the small crowd to disperse.
“What are you all looking at? There’s nothing here to see. Back to your business! Don’t you all have work to do?” Murmuring whispered to each other, they disappeared out of sight.
Duans ordered half of the guard to remain behind. With a curse, Maciael sent them out of the room. He felt drained and exhausted, and just wanted to be alone. His clothing was splattered with Tafon’s blood and ruined.
“Divio!”
“Here, Lord.” Divio appeared in the shattered doorway.
Maciael leaned on the desk, keeping his back to the broken door. “Get me something to wear.”
There was a pause, but whatever question the page was thinking to ask, he restrained himself. “Yes, Lord. Right away.”
Without the pulse of the godsfire filling his blood, Maciael began to feel unsure of himself. He realized that he was shaking even as he fought back the guilt and doubt from his mind. Things were so much clearer when he was empowered by Yaelwe’s might. Without it, he felt so small and weak. He always felt a pang of loss after casting prayer, but this time it was worse than usual. He was having difficulty fighting back a wave of depression.
“That did not seem to go…as planned.” Pax’s silken voice whispered in Maciael’s ear.
“Leave me alone,” Maciael grunted.
“Ah, of course.” Maciael could hear the twisted seraph licking his lips as he carefully considered his words. “But there is the matter of what to do with the Archdeacon now? You can’t very well keep him locked up indefinitely. I take it, my Lord, that the plan was changed?”
Maciael sighed with frustration. “The plan didn’t work.”
“I see.”
The truth was that Maciael was no diplomat. By now, that was obvious to everyone; even him. He probably should have left the interrogation to Pax in the first place. Undoubtedly that was exactly what the Master of Secrets was thinking. Maciael turned and confronted him.
“You think you could have done a better job.”
“Of course not.” Pax bowed deferentially.
“Don’t lie to me! We played it just as you said, and at the end Eonymus just got up to leave. The plan was useless!” With his eyes, Maciael dared him to deny it.
“As you say. I don’t doubt you.” Somehow, Pax’s flat expression managed to convey exactly the opposite. After a pause, he continued, “But, sometimes information cannot be gathered in a day. It takes time. Once we fostered a relationship…”
Maciael cut him off. “I got the answers out of him. He’s a spy! He’s been spying on the Chancellor for at least two years. He admitted it.”
Pax’s black eyes gave away nothing.
“So what if I beat it out of him?” Maciael continued, defensively. “I got the information I needed. Nyssa got Eonymus’ cooperation by promising him the Chancellery. In return, he acted as her spy. Then, on the night of the murder, he posted a guard to make sure the Princess could perform the dark rite and escape.”
Still Pax said nothing. Maciael was reminded of how much he loathed the spider-like seraph, and his own dependence upon him.
“What? Don’t just stand there staring at me. Out with it!”
“Very well.” Pax cleared his throat, and then spoke very softly. “I’m not suggesting this is the case, naturally, but one might argue that whatever the Archdeacon told you, he did so at sword-point. Further, someone might even suggest that, given his injuries, it is likely that he would have said anything you wished to hear. I repeat, I am not saying this is the case. I’m sure that what you say is true. But just thinking forward, to what you presumably wish to accomplish…” His voice trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished.
“Besides,” Pax continued, “I’m not sure that the admission, however valuable, was our… ah…best objective. As you told me previously, you already were convinced that the princess murdered the Chancellor. So, confirmation of that fact does not advance your position. What you needed to successfully attack her is…support for your case. Evidence. Or, an ally.” Pax suddenly thought of something. “Did the Archdeacon mention that he had letters of instruction from the Princess, perhaps?”
“No, he didn’t mention it.” Maciael answered. “He claims that his instructions were anonymous.”
Pax looked confused. “Then how did he know he was working for her?”
Maciael felt an embarrassed flush on his face. “He denies it! But come on; it’s obvious!”
“I see.” Pax’s tone fairly dripped with sarcasm.
The gall! “If you want to keep your head, I recommend you never again use that tone with me,” Maciael snapped. Anger shot through him like an arrow.
Evidently startled at the murderous look on Maciael’s face, Pax took a step back, then fell on his knees. “Forgive me, my Lord. I don’t know what came over me. I did not mean to offend. I should leave you, as you first requested.”
Divio appeared in the doorway, bearing a fresh set of clothes. Seeing Paxiamon kneeling in apology, he hesitated. Maciael waved him in.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Aug 1, 2009 22:12:19 GMT -6
Maciael ignored Pax, forcing him to wait on his knees while he changed of his blood-stained clothes. He was furious, but he was just starting to realize the amount of trouble he had created for himself. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew he needed Pax’s advice more than ever.
Duans reappeared and presented himself. He gave no indication that he noticed Pax on his knees. At a nod from Maciael, he reported, “The Archdeacon is safety stowed in one of the cells.” The manse included a small holding block used for internal discipline matters. “He gave us no trouble. He weakens with loss of blood.”
There was no hint of reproach in Duans’ report. All the same, the message was clear. The bleeding was severe. Maciael looked down and noticed that the vellarix-skin rug was stained and ruined. A dark stain led from it, across the floor tiles, and out the door. If Maciael did not order that they staunch the bleeding or summon a healer, the Archdeacon might well die from blood loss. Healing was one of the most difficult schools of prayer, and generally came easier to women then men. Maciael had no gift for it.
“Pax,” Maciael said, keeping his head averted from the Master of Secrets, “what are your thoughts regarding our prisoner?”
“The Archdeacon’s untimely demise would certainly not go unnoticed, Milord. I do not recommend it. I also agree that we cannot very well take him to one of the healing Orders. For a price, perhaps I could arrange a confidential healing…”
“Duans, can you bandage the wounds?” Maciael asked.
Duans nodded. “Yes, Milord. We should be able to save him without a healer.”
“That still leaves the matter of his being missing while he recovered, and the necessity to explain his scarring…” Pax whispered. He was still on his knees.
Curse him! Even on his knees, Pax was not cowed! Maciael closed his eyes and breathed to control his temper. “How much?” he snapped.
There was a pause, and then, “Milord…”
“Damn you, Glauca! Answer me! How much?”
“A hundred gold would likely be more than sufficient.”
“A hundred…?!” Maciael’s head snapped to the kneeling seraph. In passing, he saw the saucer eyes of Captain and Page, and their open-jawed looks of disbelief. Neither would likely ever see that much gold at once in their lifetimes. It was enough to purchase an entire residence in the middle wards. Maciael ground his teeth in fury. Pax was right, of course. He needed to Archdeacon out of the Manse, and the wounds erased, not just healed if they were to cover the matter up.
“That’s ridiculous!” Maciael continued. “Even if I heal his wounds, he’ll not likely forget the injuries. What’s the point?”
Pax kept his dark eyes fixed on the floor. “Memory is a flexible thing. Perhaps he can yet be…persuaded.”
By him, he meant. Maciael had made a royal mess of things, but he could clean up the mess. Maciael felt publicly humiliated. “How?” he grated. “How will you manage this?”
Pax looked across the room to where the Archdeacon’s prayer book lay abandoned. “We have his cynosure.” His dark eyes snapped up to Maciael’s with a sadistic glint. “And it burns.”
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Aug 5, 2009 22:40:38 GMT -6
Chapter 12
It wasn’t impossible to establish a connection with a new cynosure, but success was rare. Not only did an object need to have a deep and profound resonance with its owner in order to used as a cynosure, its effectiveness developed over time. The more an object was used to channel prayer, the more powerful it became. Not only did its power grow, its connection to the wielder grew over time until it felt like an extension of the seraph’s spirit. Maciael had heard of wielders becoming broken and depressed at the loss of their cynosure, even to the point of suicide.
Pax’s plan was simple. He would rip out and burn the pages of the prayer book one by one until the Archdeacon decided to become their ally. Once the Archdeacon agreed to help them, not only would his cynosure be safe, but his wounds would also be healed. Then, Pax would escort Eonymus back to the cathedral and look through the Archdeacon’s effects and see if there was any evidence that might be able to help them. Of course, Eonymus would not receive his cynosure back. Maybe later. Until then, it would be kept as a small reassurance of his continued cooperation.
Maciael recoiled inwardly at Pax’s methods, but summoned the Diluculo Master of Coins and signed for Pax to receive the gold he needed. He wanted nothing to do with it, which was agreeable to Pax, in any event. The Master of Secrets generally insisted on conducting his business alone. By morning, it was done.
“Partial success, Milord.”
Maciael was eating a light breakfast of jellied bread, fresh cut fruit, and lemon water, while working his way through a pile of neglected letters and dispatches. He looked up to see a bleary-eyed Pax presenting himself at the end of the table. Evidently the Master of Secrets had not yet slept.
“Partial success?” Maciael frowned.
Pax bowed slightly. “We do have the Archdeacon’s unequivocal support and cooperation…but there was nothing of use among his things. Evidently, whoever was directing him was smart enough to require that all instructions be burned after reading.” Pause. “Not surprising, really.”
Maciael grunted his acknowledgement. “And the prayer book?” he asked.
Pax reached into his tunic, drew out the singed volume, and slipped it onto the table. “Here it is.”
Maciael wiped his hands and then picked it up and flipped it open. A dozen pages were missing from the preamble. No great loss there; mostly just a catalogue of editorial notes and a history of the manuscript. Eonymus had not held out long. Still, he could not help feeling a pang of guilt. How long would he have lasted if someone slowly lowered Aduro into a vat of molten fire in front of him? He closed the book and gently put it back on the table.
Pax cleared his throat.
Maciael looked up. “What is it?”
“Nothing, Milord. I was just wondering if you thought it was a good idea to keep that confiscated item in your possession?”
Maciael’s tone was icy. “Are you suggesting that someone might be able to break into the Diluculo treasury?” Pax bowed even lower. “Of course not! I would never suggest such a thing.” Maciael more felt than heard Pax licking his lips. “But, then again, a Royal command to search the safe is not exactly ‘breaking in’…”
Maciael sighed. “I thought you said that we had Eonymus’ full cooperation?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely, Milord. Absolutely. My private discussions with the Archdeacon were detailed and lengthy, I assure you. I spared no effort to make the matter crystal clear. The Archdeacon is, currently, fervent in his support and willingness to aid Milord in any way he might. I am confident that his tears of repentance and thanks were genuine, especially at the healing. The injuries were definitely more severe than expected, really. He rather narrowly avoided a permanent and rather hideous disfigurement.” He shook his head sadly, and continued, “Unfortunately, in my humble opinion, memory is a frail and unreliable creature. I assure you that I will be making regular visits to our new fiend and ally, to do what I can to prevent any forgetfulness. Still, there is always the remote possibility that he might have a change of heart, or might come under other pressure to disclose what he knows. And if such information were to somehow makes its way to the ear of the King…”
“Enough!” Maciael snapped. “You’ve made your point. What is your advice?”
“If you feel it appropriate, I can ensure that this essential and valuable tool remains securely hidden.”
Maciael felt like pointing out that if their actions were discovered by the King, Pax could well be subject to “persuasion” that would tear any hiding place from him, but he held his tongue. Frowning, he pushed the book across the table. It disappeared back into the seraph’s tunic.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Aug 8, 2009 19:40:02 GMT -6
Pax bowed, waiting for leave to depart, but Maciael ignored the request. Despite his obvious exhaustion, Maciael wasn’t done with the Master of Secrets yet. He turned back to the mail, digging slowly through the tiresome petitions from merchants, fawning appeals from minor families for his intervention in matters of local justice, and the ubiquitous long-winded reports from his provincial Stewards. It held little interest for him. His father had always made a point to tour the holdings once each year, but Maciael had dispensed with the visits years ago. It was more important for him to be connected to the King’s court, and candidly, the Stewards were better versed at managing affairs than he was. He continued skimming through the pile.
What was important was that there wasn’t a single request for private audience by a fellow Council member. With all of the High Lords in the city for the Chancellor’s funeral, Council would be convening to discuss matters of import in the Kingdom. Maciael knew from past experience that a great deal of negotiation and brokering took place before the meeting ever took place. Insulis had always been in the thick of it, of course, and normally Maciael would have been flying about madly, bullying and cajoling the Councillors, advancing their objectives. Now, however, there was a noticeable absence of any inquiries. No requests for meetings, no carefully written letters to be analyzed and deciphered, not even any casual lunch invitations. Nitidus, Lucensis, and Dulcis he might write off as zealots, though he had met with each of them before. But where was Crinis, or Lady Mimatense? Surely they had orthodox agenda items for introduction!
As he dug through the letters, his frustration grew. It wasn’t fair! He had never merely been a puppet for the Chancellor. But the lack of correspondence was indisputable.
“They’re up to something!” he snapped, sweeping the papers away from him. A few letters cascaded down onto the floor.
Pax took the opportunity to straighten. “Milord?”
“When is the Council meeting?”
“In two days, if I am not mistaken.”
Maciael glared at the Master of Secrets. “Well?”
Pax bowed his head slightly, though his words were not entirely submissive. “I have been a bit…occupied…of late, Milord.”
Maciael surged to his feet. “So you know nothing? You have nothing for me?” What did he have the seraph for, but for access to such information? Useless!
Pax spoke quickly. “I did not mean to suggest that I have no information for you. Only that I have less. As well, as you may know…I have not yet slept. If I might recommend…”
“No you may not. I’ll hear your report now. You do have one, don’t you?”
“Of course. Certainly.” Though his whispers could not possibly be heard, Pax paused and looked meaningfully across the room at the two guards posted by the door.
Maciael raised his voice. “Leave us,” he commanded. As the door shut behind them, he turned his eyes back to Pax’s haggard form.
Despite Pax’s efforts to embellish and inflate his report, there was precious little to it. The Dulcis heir had recently died while out hunting. Word was, it was simply juvenile foolishness, mixed in with a fair amount of intoxication, but one might expect a renewed clamour for lowering the draft to the Royal armies. The zealots had been pressing for more autonomy to the provinces for ages. Lord Nitidus was always harping on the King’s tax, and what he perceived to be a need for review, due to the fact that food prices continued to rise each year while the price of ore remained unchanged. Further, as there had really been little need for the Royal army in the last ten years, demand for arms and armour continued to slowly erode. It was true. A decade prior, Crinis, whose holdings included several astral arboretums, had been a relatively minor Lord. But as the winters had extended and worsened, his wealth and influence had escalated. Mimatense regularly attended to the Chapel of the Order of Mercy, though whether there were thawed relations with Princess Cracovia was uncertain; she could merely be continuing the pretence of mourning her dead husband. There continued to be some unrest amongst mankind, though for the most part isolated to the provinces of Motense and Aurila, far off in the west. It was a small issue, and really only Lucensis’ concern, but he might well demand that the Order of the Dawn be commanded to root out the trouble…
“What kind of unrest?” Maciael asked.
There were conflicting reports. Most likely just a handful of disaffected commoners up in arms about lost crops or poor working conditions. There were always rumours of rebellion and uprisings; one must not give much heed to such gossip. Pax certainly did not.
Maciael could not help being interested anyway. For too long things had been quiet. With demonkind cast over the Great Rift during the Crusades, fiends and monsters all but eradicated, and the human uprising quashed, King Cracovia’s reign had been to all intents and purposes undisturbed for ten years. Frankly, with nothing but ceremonial functions to attend to, the Order had been slowly eroding for years.
“Perhaps it is time to seek out these rebels and burn them out of their warrens. Send word to Lucensis that I wish to meet with him. Tomorrow.”
Something caught Maciael’s eye. Tucked in amongst the scattered letters on his desk was a calling card. Maciael drew it out and considered it. Made from layers of translucent paper, and lavishly decorated with entwined silver and emerald ornamentation, Maciael immediately knew it. Princess Cracovia. The date showed during his “convalescence,” three days before the Chancellor’s funeral. Nyssa had invited him to what appeared to be a private audience at her residence. What had she been up to?
“Why wasn’t I told of this?”
Maciael looked up to see Pax staring speechlessly at the card. He clearly had no idea it had been there.
“Pax?”
“I…Milord, ah…that is your personal mail.”
“You do not review my mail?” It was a trick question. If he snooped into his Lord’s private affairs, he overstepped his bounds. If he didn’t, he was incompetent as a Master of Secrets. Maciael’s lips spread into a pitiless grin as Pax squirmed, realizing the trap.
He opted to be incompetent. “I have no knowledge that the Princess’ calling.”
Maciael allowed himself a small dig. “What do I pay you for?”
Pax merely bowed his head, knowing better than to answer. It was a rhetorical question. Maciael went back to considering the Princess’ card. He had been trying to figure out her game since that encounter in the cathedral, and candidly hadn’t gotten anywhere. Maybe the problem was that he was trying to play like Insulis. He was a warrior, not a strategist. Give him a straight-up fight, and there wasn’t an enemy in the kingdom he couldn’t defeat. All this skulking about wasn’t for him! He hated it.
He knew immediately it was the right choice. His lips spread wider, to reveal a comfortable, confident smile, as he announced. “I think it is time that I face the dragon in her den. Send word to the Princess that I accept, however belatedly, her generous invitation, and would be happy to attend upon her, at her leisure.”
Of course Pax hated the idea. He didn’t need to say anything; Maciael saw the fear in his eyes. The fact that Pax disliked it only made him surer. He half-heartedly listened to the rest of the seraph’s bland report, and then sent him packing to see the message delivered. As Pax’s mismatched wings disappeared through the doorway, Maciael took up Aduro and practiced a few easy cuts. He was still smiling.
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